


The Jailing of H. Combeferre

by rainchant



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Growing Up, Jail, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, Love, M/M, Social Issues, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainchant/pseuds/rainchant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, those times when Combeferre's friends landed him in jail, occasionally despite his wishes.  Even from a young age, Combeferre only seemed to make true friends when prison was involved. When your friends are mostly aspiring revolutionaries who want to change the world, it's kind of unavoidable. Modern day AU, featuring all of the barricade boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This first chapter takes place before the passing of the Affordable Care Act.

Henri Combeferre had just gotten his first pair of prescription glasses the first time he saw the inside of a jail. They were pretty thin lenses, but the frames were black and thick, in the style that would one day be called “hipster.” Some of the kids at school already called him names for being smart and enjoying school, and today, the bus ride to the jail had been unpleasant at first. As soon as they entered the prison complex, though, and their teacher had informed them that two police officers would be escorting them as their tour guides, Combeferre’s glasses had taken a back seat in the conversation. A real jail! With real convicts! Half of the class of his private school wanted to be lawyers, and others were swearing that they would be detectives one day.

But as they were walked through the processing area and into the holding cells, gentle Combeferre was near the head of the group, asking questions about holding procedures and rehabilitation. One officer was fairly helpful, but the other one plainly wanted to go through the tour and get these middle-schoolers out of his jail as soon as possible. 

There wasn’t enough information here; Combeferre resolved to research prison procedure once he got back home.

The holding cells were very occupied today. “There was a protest downtown,” the more helpful officer explained. “All protests should be cleared with local law enforcement before they happen, to make sure all the proper permits are obtained; otherwise, they end up here. Most of the protesters will be out within 48 hours, so this is really just a warning. Remember, kids, always check your local, state, and federal laws. No one wants to see you in here.”

Combeferre hadn't heard about any protest occurring. That was what came from neglecting to read the morning paper, he supposed. Reading the paper went straight into his mental to-do list. 

The group stopped to listen to an explanation of what equipment officers carried, and Combeferre took the opportunity to fall back through the group, all the way to the back, towards the cells. His classmates parted mechanically to let him pass; most of them took little notice of him. Still lanky, with his nondescript brown hair and new glasses, he had the ability to blend into the crowd when he wanted to. Now he approached the holding cells, keeping an eye out for his teacher. 

It was a motley crew, for sure, all of them in cheap clothing, jeans and overalls, caps pulled over their heads, frayed sweaters and fingerless gloves to battle the cold outside. Henri Combeferre knew that most of the working class lived downtown, but in all his eleven years he’d never really seen them up-close. His family lived in a gated community and gave to charities, but they didn't really go downtown.

There were six or seven to a cell, all of them crammed together and breathing the same foul-smelling air. Miserable expressions on most of them, but a few were laughing and joking or banging on the bars. 

One boy with curly hair saw Combeferre’s approach and threw him a smile. “Watch out, kid,” he said, low enough to carry but hopefully not loud enough for the officers to hear. “They’ll throw you in too if you’re not careful.”

The boy behind bars couldn't have been any older than thirteen, but he favored Combeferre with a smile that was wiser than his years. Combeferre was intrigued. “Why did they arrest you?” he asked.

“The protest,” the boy responded. “We’re on strike for health insurance. You know, because some of us can't work full-time, so companies don't have to give us health insurance."

“Are you allowed to work?”

The boy shook his head. “No, but I’m old enough to protest. Only, the police have rules against roadblocks.” A guilty expression crossed his face for a moment, shading his green eyes. “I didn't mean to drag anyone into it, though. Maybe you should go before they see you talking to me.”

He glanced back at his class, but no one seemed to have moved very much. “You’re not dragging me into anything, so I don’t see why they would have reason to be upset,” Combeferre said sensibly.

“I already kind of got a friend in trouble because of this,” the boy admitted. “I didn't mean to land us in jail.”

Behind him, two men parted to allow a path for another, younger, boy to approach the bars. This one was small, much smaller than Combeferre, with huge blue eyes and untamed blonde hair, but something in the way he approached made both the boy and Combeferre stand up straighter. “I am here because I want to be. You didn't drag me into anything, Feuilly.”

He looked nine and spoke with a much more cultured accent than his friend–Feuilly–and Combeferre wasn't entirely certain that they’d never met before. This boy’s red jacket was too big for him, but he didn't seem like he belonged to the working class. He put a hand on the worker boy’s shoulder, and looked Combeferre straight in the eye. “You attended my last school,” he said.

Combeferre had a great memory for names and faces, but he drew a blank on this one. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m Henri Combeferre. I don’t think I know either of your names.”

“Alexander Enjolras,” the little blonde one said. “We were in elementary school together, before I moved.”

“Antoine Feuilly,” said the curly-haired boy. “Don’t think we've ever met. Hello!”

Only the fact that he knew there were people watching stopped him from offering his hand to shake. Instead, he nodded at both of them. “I hope they let you out soon,” he said.

Alexander Enjolras looked down briefly. “We may be here a while,” he said. “But the protest was worth it.”

Feuilly looked over Combeferre’s shoulder quickly. “Your group’s starting to move. You should catch up with them, Henri.”

The group was starting to move again, and his teacher was marshaling his classmates together. He’d be missed soon. “Well, good to meet you,” Combeferre said, hesitantly, “and hope you get out of jail soon. I may see you later.”

“Come by tomorrow. We’ll still be here,” Feuilly said with a grin. “Good to meet you, kid!”

Enjolras nodded. “See you later, Combeferre.”

Combeferre rejoined his group with many a backward glance. Once the tour was over, he pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed his parents’ work. “Mother? Hi. I just got out of the field trip…yes, it was fun. I didn't learn as much as I wanted to…yes…well, I wanted to ask something. Remember when Father said I could have a favor if I agreed to help him with his taxes? Well, I just met two boys in jail…no, Mother…they were arrested protesting for health insurance. Just basic health insurance! No, but they said no one is coming to bail them out until tomorrow, and I was wondering if we have room at our house. They could stay the night…Yes. Bail and board. That’s the favor I want. Just the night, I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

The police wouldn't allow non-family members or people without legal guardianship to post bail for minors. Combeferre was informed of this as soon as his mother picked him up from school that day. “I checked the state laws, dear,” she said, “and there’s nothing that we can do for them. I’m sorry.”

Combeferre nodded and looked out the window. “I understand,” he said.

The office buildings around the school gave way to wealthier communities, but Combeferre barely saw any of it. His mind conjured up the smell of prison, the protesters leaning on their signs, faded overalls, a friendly smile, sharp blue eyes. In his eyes the large houses he passed became urban dwellings, bunched together as close as possible. Well-paved road became cracked and gutted. People loitered on the corners, having a cigarette before going back to work. And all around them, men and women in suits walked past without a word. 

Somewhere, a family with a kid like Feuilly got by on a job with low salary and not enough hours to get health insurance, never knowing when someone might get the flu or break a leg or have a heart attack. If they didn't have health insurance, or couldn't afford it, would they have life insurance either? Could they post bail? Could they afford to get their kid out of jail? Would the government decide that they weren't fit parents, couldn't afford a child? And Enjolras, who had attended Combeferre’s private school once; where were his parents? What were they doing?

“Henri? We’re home.”

He was shaken to the bone. He could barely move.

Long after his mother had left for her shift at the clinic, and he waited for his father to arrive home, those images stayed burned on the back of his eyes. God, it had been years since he’d actually been downtown, so he didn't know for sure that life was really like that. Perhaps it was his overactive imagination again, something that he’d had to control since he was small.

But something in him said that somewhere not too far from where he was, life went on in exactly that way.

He couldn't concentrate on homework at all. Pushing his glasses higher on his nose, he went to the Internet to look up health care.

Combeferre was in the grip of something big, and it would not let him go. When his father pulled into their driveway at six-thirty, the eleven-year-old met him at the door. “Father,” he said without preamble, “I have a different favor to ask for. I want to go back down to the jail and stay the night.”

To his credit, his father only stood there for about a minute before he sighed and said, “Let’s go sit down, son.”

“Let’s go sit down, son” was what his father always said before a serious discussion, so Combeferre sat very straight when they took their places and looked his father in the eye, waiting for him to begin. 

It took nearly three minutes for Dr. Combeferre to marshal his thoughts. “Son, I know you have a good heart and a good head. You care about people, but you aren't foolish about it. That’ll get you far in life. Your mother and I have always tried to teach you our best, to think logically and not be afraid of the conclusion. What problem have you been considering, that your conclusion is to spend the night in jail?”

The younger Combeferre hesitated. “Perhaps…this isn’t based just on logic. Father, everyone should be able to afford to be treated if they’re ill, right? That’s what you and Mother always say. But I read today that over 40 million people in this country don’t have insurance. You always complain about how expensive hospitals are. So, if these workers are on strike because they can’t afford to get proper treatment, then they have no reason to be in jail. They should be on the streets, where they can make people aware of the problem.”

“They set up a roadblock in the middle of 42nd and Yew. That was against the law, and an extreme. Surely that caused problems for a lot of people,” his father prompted.

“Yes. Maybe that was extreme. Perhaps that wasn't the best course of action. But at least it was some action!” There was something he wanted to say that was so important, it was obvious, even, but the words wouldn't come easily. “Feuilly, his friends, my classmate Alexander Enjolras…” Realization hit suddenly. “They've done something. I've done nothing.”

Dr. Combeferre shook his head slowly with a smile. “Son, you have the opportunity to help in your own way. You’ll be one of the best doctors of the day once you’re out of school. You could even go into politics, if that’s what you want. That, too, you’d be good at. House of Representatives or Senate, or President even! There’s no good in hasty action.”

“I still want to go,” said Combeferre quietly.

His father looked at the determination in his son’s brown eyes and sighed. “You’re eleven,” he said. “I would worry all night.”

“I still want to go.”

“It will accomplish nothing.”

“I still want to go. At least to see if Enjolras and Feuilly really are still there. They are about my age, and spending the night in jail. I’d like to talk to them. I’m sure they’re at least a little frightened.”

That, Dr. Combeferre couldn't argue with. Thirty minutes later, he and his son were pulling into the prison’s parking lot.

The police officer on duty was the helpful one from before, and he and Dr. Combeferre traded almost identical looks of almost helpless confusion before they both looked down at Henri. 

“I’d like to speak with them, please,” Combeferre repeated politely.

“There must be a visitation policy,” his father said. “I know this is unorthodox, but one of the boys went to school with my son. They are both still here, are they not? I would post bail myself, if I could.”

The officer nodded. “Yes, sir. You’re well known for setting a good example to others around here; I’d let them go with you if I could. We are waiting on Alexander Enjolras’s parents to arrive, and also on the arrival of Antoine Feuilly’s social worker. I’ll check with my superior, but a visit is probably in regulations.” 

Combeferre smiled. He knew that his father could arrange it. 

Now that he was here, though, what exactly was he going to say? Oh, hello, I saw you earlier in jail today and decided to join in? I can’t post bail, but I can stay with you? Why exactly would they want his company? On the ride over, Combeferre had been calm, but now his stomach jumped. He did have a reason for coming over, even if he couldn't quite define it to himself. What was he going to say?

Combeferre was escorted to an open holding cell, and he leaned against the wall to wait. Whenever you’re stressed, his mother had said, breathe slowly. Panicking doesn't help. Combeferre ran a hand through his hair quickly and waited.

But as soon as the two boys in question were escorted to Combeferre’s waiting room, Feuilly grinned so wide that his face almost split and grabbed the bars with both hands, his face pressed into the gap. “Didn't I warn you that they’d get you too?” His face fell. “They didn't arrest you, right?”

“No, no,” Combeferre said as the officer shooed them inside and then, in true jail fashion, locked them in, “but I left earlier without the chance to shake your hands. I didn't introduce myself properly.”

Feuilly smiled, but Enjolras stepped forward first and offered his hand to shake. “Combeferre,” he said, “I thought I’d see you soon. Welcome back to jail.”

A smile curled its way across Combeferre’s face, and he didn't even stop to think about how weird that sentence was. 

Two hours and a snack break later, Combeferre knew that Feuilly lost both parents at the age of ten, that his foster parents didn't really care that he protested, and that he would probably be moved to a new home soon anyway. He had an interest in woodwork, blacksmithing, and painting, and he thought it was weird how both Enjolras and Combeferre called him and each other by their last names. “It seems like a private school thing,” he said.

Enjolras agreed. “Everyone was a last name in the school we went to,” he explained. “It catches on after a while. I’m not sure if I like the idea or not.”

Enjolras, Combeferre had discovered, was also eleven and was not fond of his home life. “I spend my time with others when I can,” he said, dismissively, as though it were no big deal. Combeferre couldn't even imagine living like that. He was also more knowledgeable about health care than either Feuilly or Combeferre, and what he believed, he believed strongly. “If people aren't going to listen when we talk,” he said, “then we shouldn't be punished for making them listen. The roadblock was a great idea.”

Combeferre was pretty sure that Enjolras wasn't a part of the ‘we’ that didn't have insurance, but he didn't comment. Enjolras’s extreme confidence was a little disconcerting, however. How could he be so sure that he was in the right? 

Still, he couldn't remember the last time he talked to any of his classmates so freely, as he told them about his plans to be a doctor and his young beagle puppy. 

“I've never had a dog,” Feuilly said wistfully. “Never stayed in one place enough.”

“You should visit me,” Combeferre said quickly. He meant it, he realized. He really wanted them to hang out, and Feuilly looked pleased. “Honestly, I don’t think my parents will mind. We can borrow the living room and set up there.”

“Set up?” Feuilly asked. “For our plans to take over the world?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras said. “Plans to better the world.”

“The Brain thought he would better the world, too,” Combeferre said, and was relieved when Feuilly got the joke. 

Enjolras’s blue eyes stare into his own. “I mean to really make the world better. You do too, or else I don’t think you would be here.”

Part of what Combeferre was trying to explain to his father earlier bubbled up in the back of his throat, and he swallowed. “We’ll set everything up properly,” he promised. “It will be a real headquarters, a base of operations. I've got high-speed internet and we have subscriptions to at least three newspapers. I lose count, actually.”

Feuilly and Enjolras exchanged glances and looked back at him with eyes alight. 

Combeferre felt a twitch akin to nerves, but better than that. This was the start of something. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and nodded. “I’ll see how soon I can arrange it all. Give me your numbers, or however I can talk to you.”

Feuilly’s social worker arrived around ten, and the boy hugged Enjolras and hesitated a second before wrapping his arms around Combeferre, too. “See you later!” he yelled as the frazzled woman led him away.

Enjolras kept looking out of their cell. “Thanks for giving us a place to meet,” he said. “I’ll give you a call once I’m out, and we’ll set something up.”

Combeferre looked straight ahead as well. “Do you think you’ll be out any time soon?”

“Probably not until tomorrow. But I don’t mind waiting. At the least, the police will remember I was here, and they’ll remember this protest.”

“Okay,” Combeferre said, and sat back down with his back against the wall.

Enjolras looked down at him in surprise. “Aren't you leaving? You have school tomorrow, right?”

Yes, he did, and he knew his dad would be anxious for them to leave, but he didn't really care about that right then. He didn't want to go. “No,” he said honestly. “I’m staying here until morning. If you don’t mind the company.”

A light broke out in Enjolras’s face, and Combeferre had to smile in response as the other boy sat down in front of him. Enjolras might have been only eleven, and a bit extreme, but Combeferre liked him. “We have some planning to do, then,” his new friend said. “I was serious when I said I plan on changing the world.”

“So was I,” Combeferre replied. “Where should we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a time jump next chapter. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is set in the modern day United States, somewhere in the north. All of barricade boys will eventually appear, I promise! I hope you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment if you like!
> 
> P.S. Les Mis and its characters are not mine. I only borrowed them.


End file.
